


The courting of Sir Mannelig

by Matydos



Category: Original Work, Swedish folklore - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fantasy, Folklore, Historical, Historical References, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Mystical Creatures, Mythology - Freeform, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Sweden - Freeform, Tragedy, Trolls, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28792590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matydos/pseuds/Matydos
Summary: A retelling of the poem Herr Mannelig/Bergatrollets Frieri that expands on its story and themes.
Relationships: Herr Mannelig/Bergatrollet





	The courting of Sir Mannelig

In a time of strife, a blight upon the history of proud peoples. A single lord, a king finally ruled the land, once divided by the Swedes and the Geats. Boys would hear tales of wars and valor from their grandfathers, and girls would hear of lost lovers from their grandmothers.

Södermanland, the region that existed between the past enemies, was one of lakes and watery hollows. Where wonders of nature eclipsed works of man, and native magic lost ground to foreign faith and power. In such a place existed a man of unmatched virtue and a woman of incomparable devotion.

That man walked to his meek village. Enemies and rulers, old and new, oppressed the land of his birth. To pay his due taxes to the king, the man would travel for long, to a city days away.

He was not one to hate the journey; he had grown from tolerating to understanding it. This time, however, was the first he took alone. One by one, each of the previous winters, a foreign disease took his family. The road, forced into being by human effort, was his only companion. That, and the god tradition compelled him to uphold. Though much of the ideas of morality the man carried came from that god, he was a participant of he's rituals out of obligation more than anything.

Walking on that road that day, the man took to his surroundings often. One time, like many before, not too far from his modest village, Sir Mannelig stood to feel the icy wind that blew. He could feel his garments dampen from the breeze, his ears pick the rustling of leaves and tweets of fleeing birds, and his nose invaded by the smell of wet earth.

In his trance, he had failed to notice the presence that approached him. Fully clad in linen and other fabrics, he could see nothing of the individual. Its concealed hand held a wooden cane, its back hunched. The figure had a sickly visage, but was distinctively human.

He was convinced this was a poor crone. Visions of his ill family overtook the man's memory, empathy engulfed the man's thoughts. He took pity on her, choosing to spare some of his few coins.

They slowly approached each other along the track. Mannelig readied his hand on his pouch. He was to greet the elder, when she spoke first.

"O, Herr Mannelig, I know of thy virtues."

Sweet was her voice. Not that of sickness or age, but tenderness and plea. This being knew of his name and that shocked the man, but did not react.

"Herr Mannelig, will you be betrothed to me? Hear the gifts I can offer thee. Then will thee answer with a yes or no? Only a yes or a no."

The previous act had shaken him, this request disturbed him. An immediate "no" would escape the man's mouth had she not begged to be heard. Motioning his hand, granted her the chance to speak.

"O, Herr Mannelig, I can offer thee twelve palfreys. Horses that have never seen saddle or bridle."

He could not hide disbelief in his face. There was no possibility whoever she was could have a palfrey, let alone twelve. True to his word, however, he would let her speak until the end.

"O, Herr Mannelig, I can offer thee mills across all of Svealand. They are of reddest gold and of silver wheels."

She once spoke untruths, now she spoke madness. Understanding the situation, the good man lost no pity for her. He took three silver coins and handed them to her. The woman clasped his palm through fabric, refusing his offer. She continued rambling.

"Hear me, Herr Mannelig. I can offer thee a gilded sword bearing fifteen rings. Wield it and defeat shall never meet thee."

Even if his integrity knew no bounds, his patience did. He broke the woman's grasp. The coins fell on the damp ground. He walked away, but the woman followed.

"Pray thee hear, my final gift, Herr Mannelig! I can offer a silken white shirt to thou! One not sewn, but crocheted! Please, Herr Mannelig, answer me with a yes or no? Only a yes or a no."

With that, Mannelig stopped. He had listened to the insane woman's ramblings and thus could just simply reply.

A gust of wind followed Mannelig's turnaround to face her. A strong and wet wind that waved his simple shirt and blew the woman's cowl.

It revealed her face to the man. Her skin was not pale as his, nor tanned as foreigners, not even dark as he heard some people have. No, hers was gray and rugged, dull; it was stone. Her hair, wild and unwashed, collected dry leaves and branches. That was no human.

Try as she might, she could no longer hide the truth from him; she was a bergatroll. The man had heard tales of monsters that would court men and take their souls. He could not stand such an aberration.

"Herr Mannelig, answer me with a yes or no?" She spoke with a meek voice. "Only a yes or a no."

"Such request and gifts I would accept, were thou a follower the Savior. Thou, however, art a foul creature! Kin to necks and demons!"

The troll shivered. Like cascading waters would stain cold stone, her eyes produced soiling tears across her cheeks. Her sobbing mouth agape, she put her face between her stonelike hands and screamed in pain, in sorrow.

This was not behavior of heartlessness the man had heard the monster would have. Empathy struck again, for a beast no less. He sought to apologize to the troll, sinful act as it may be. 

She could not tolerate such shame and thus ran away. As she did, her many layers of linen and cloth flowed with the wind. Her rockish body was that of an attractive woman, save for the cracks and patches of moss.

"Had I romanced that man," her wails echoed through the hollows, "it would rid me of my plights."

Those words, specifically the ones she yelled as she ran away, sparked feelings inside of the man. "What plight could she possibly be delivered from by marrying me?" That thought invaded the moral man's head every day following that one.

Days passed. The image of that crying beast, had, in his head, turned no different from a sad, rejected maiden. He had to seek her to know more, or at the very least apologize.

He walked to the place they once met. The only thing to greet him was the powerful current that journeyed through the hollows. The wind would die down and return in succession. Mannelig fell back to his riviere. Letting go of all vision gave him the ability to feel the sounds wholly. The chaotic rustling of leaves; the obnoxious call of graylag geese; small ripples on the shore of the lake; distant, faint weeping.

The cries led him to a steep hollow. Lush trees surrounded a small pond, filled with yellowish dead leaves at the center,. On the banks of the small body of water sat the mountain troll, still weeping.

"Bergatrollet!" Mannelig cried. "May I speak with thee?"

She lept to her feet when she took notice of the man. She looked at the man with horror and shock. Pronounced stains on her face, eyes red, she took a stance to flee.

"Wait!" Said the man.

"What is there to speak! Thee clarified thou views me for the monster I am! Thou has answered my question, man of virtue."

"Await, I said!"

Mannelig slid down the hollow with those words. This had the troll flinch, but not run away. She stared at the man, recomposing his stance in anxious poise. He spoke as he approached the troll.

"Thou said of a plight betrothal could mend. What ailment could my company heal?"

Her posture turned erect. Her face, once locked on the human in fear, gave him the side-eye in shame. Tearful, she spoke.

"'Tis love, Herr Mannelig. To think of thy good heart is the greatest sorrow. To see thy face, the greatest pain. The frigidity of thine absence is my sickness, Herr Mannelig."

Her speech carried her feelings through the hollow. It was not the sickly sweet voice of a temptress; it was the genuine confession of a maiden. No preconceptions of monstrosity from the being in front of him remained. Bergatroll, at least this one, was as human as any other maiden he had seen.

He approached the stone skinned damsel with calm cadence. She noticed, pulling her body back.

"Approach me not!" She said. "I can take no more of this!"

Mannelig ignored this request. Inching further at a quicker pace.

"No! NO!"

She would have run away had the man not taken one of her rigid arms. To her surprise, he pulled her dirty body into a hug. One of his arms on the back of her head caressed her wild hair, the other on her lower back resting just over her bare behind.

An expression of shock paralyzed her face. In silence, they stood for minutes. He broke the stillness with his voice, serious but tender.

"Are thy feelings true, maiden?"

The sheer fact he called her not a monster or demon, but a woman was enough to cause her to sob. Amidst cries, she gave her answer.

"Yes! Yes, Herr Mannelig! As true as I stand!"

"Then," he broke the hug, holding her by the shoulders, "I shall accept thy request."

Her weeping face dried, giving to a look of shock and concern. She placed her hands on his chest as if to push him. In her state, however, she lacked the strength to even make him budge.

"Thou must not," she said. "I have no gifts to offer thee. Those were falsehoods of a desperate woman."

"I care not. For the greatest gift, thou can till now give."

He forced her back into his embrace. The texture of her strange skin against his chest felt cold as any other stone. Her beating heart underneath, however, was warmth and mirth. She resisted no longer, returning the gesture.

"Oh, dear Mannelig! Thou have saved my soul!"

The man clad her naked body in the linen he had kept when she ran away. He brought her to the small town, away from sight, as per her request.

Once in the privacy of the man's small residence, he gave her proper clothes, ones that once belonged to his mother. The woman shyly probed at his family's whereabouts; Mannelig answered in tow.

By the residence's hearth, told of his past. Six seasons ago, his father, a lumberman, contracted an unheard illness. The town lacked physicians then, and the prayers from the parish proved fruitless. They buried him the following season. His mother and younger sister, in time, had followed. He had a full family in one spring and was to fend and provide for himself in the following.

"Such tragedy," she says. "My condolences."

"No good life is free from tragedy. My father's last words."

"A man of wisdom."

It came time for the man to have his inquiries. The troll had mentioned knowing Mannelig, but the man did not know even her name. He motioned her to sit beside him on the bed so he could groom her disheveled hair. With his late sister's comb in hand, he asked her of her circumstances.

"Forgive me, thee must," said the woman, "for I have no story to my name. For Bergatrolls are as wary of their own people as they are of humanity. Thou shall find more kinship between Skogsra and men. Once we are born we are to live off nature and the will of the mountains."

"I ask not of the history of thy people, but thine."

"Then forgive me thee must still, dear Mannelig. The mountain whence I come has been long taken by men. I strayed far into this watery land then. It's been many seasons, but I once came across a man who helped a foreign stranger, unlike his fellow natives." She faced him as she felt the man finish with her hair. "Thy person is that man. Such compassion roused my thoughts and feelings."

"I understand thee better now. Lastly, will thou tell thy name?" Mannelig placed the back of his hand on one of her rugged cheeks. "It's not to my liking to call my spouse a troll."

"That, however, is what I am. I shall beg forgiveness one last time. My name is as unsightly as the belief men hold of my kind."

Tiredness, or perhaps understanding, led to the man to probe no further that night. He convinced her to take the residence's main bed while he would use his childhood one.

As the days passed, Mannelig managed the preparations for his wedding. Rumors circulated of his bride to be. "A Geat!" some called. "A gypsy!" did others. Mannelig's well-known ethics weakened any of those speculations, which led to indifference rather than animosity. The rumors ran so amok that not even the parish would accept the man's request of holding a ceremony. They blamed such unavailability on a lack of funds; such lukewarm lies did not fool Mannelig.

"Forgive me," said the man to his bride-to-be. "For I can find no site for our nuptials, nor priest to verify our union. Not even invitees could I gather. I fear I can grant you no ceremony."

The woman, who sewn by the fireplace, sulked in disappointment.

"You need not fret, maiden. For I intend to go back on my word not. Thou shall become my wife."

A warm smile, still tinged by guilt, formed on her stony face. She stood, leaving her sewing on the chair she once sat, and approached Mannelig.

"I never doubt thy virtues," she said. "Thy feelings are plenty to remedy my sorrows. However, if a betrothal ritual thou seek, by the ancient traditions, under the eyes of the gods of these lands, I can grant thee."

He interlocked fingers with her. His senses had grown accustomed to the textures of her skin, feeling not cold stone, but the warm touch of another human.

"In ignorance, they ill speak of thee. I trust their deceitful tongue with no judgement. Under the eyes of any god would please me to marry thee."

They agreed then to wed away from a holy building, instead in a sacred lake.

Time passed quickly until their wedding day came. In the morning of that day, before they set for their natural holy ground, the maiden sought her future husband's attention.

"Hark, dear Mannelig," she said, "now I can confer thee a wedding gift! For thine love and kindness, I here rectify one of my lies."

She held a pure white shirt. The man remembered the promises his bride had once made. True to her word, she made it of silk and not linen, crocheted and not sewn. He was to accept the gift, when the hands that gripped the vest drew his attention. A faint reddish tone dyed her palms.

He made haste to snatch the clothing from her, tossing it away. He forced her hands open, so he could see her palms. Scratches and gashes, some fresh, and some half healed, blemished her hands. He spoke with despair in his eyes.

"Thou art hurt! Does any pain linger?"

Incredulity developed in her face; a barely moving statue. He awaited no response. Haphazard hands brought the woman bandages and mended her wounds. Once the still shocked man finished, the bride lipped her beloved in the forehead.

"By the gods," she said. "For a creature such as I, to be blessed with such kindness. Thou art the light of my life, Herr Mannelig."

They proceeded to the lake where the ritual would take place. Once there, they both disrobed and entered the lake. The chill winds caused the man's bare body to shiver, and the water froze and hurt his lower body.

The Bergatroll took their hands and recited an ancient prayer to the ancient goddess of marriage; the language she spoke lied on the fringes of what he could understand. With his inside voice, he prayed to the god they taught him to follow.

"Rejoice, my dear," said the woman. "We are now wed!"

"I brought this," Mannelig drew a simple silvery ring he had brought into the lake. "It was my parents', my family's only treasure."

He caressed her left hand, fitting the ring in her rock-like fingers. Even if cold and rocky, the touch of the woman who just became his wife provided a warming glow.

"Is this a custom of thy people?" Said the woman. "Forgive me, I knew not."

"The exchange of rings? Yes. Thou need not give me anything, however."

"And yet, I fear I must."

She crouched, diving her hand in the chilly waters. Out of it she brought a small pebble; it's grayish white, unlike anything Mannelig had ever seen.

"Just a little longer, my dear."

She covered the small stone within her hands. After some seconds, she opened them again, revealing a ring-shaped pebble.

"'Tis plain and of foul origin, yet I hope thee shall accept it."

She mimicked Mannelig's ring fitting action. Her sheepish movements told him she expected some resistance; and yet she found none. The small hoop barely fit his finger. The uncanny warmness it emanated was similar to what his spouse's touch had grown to be.

On the watery altar, wintry morning winds blowing, small ripples hitting their legs, Sir and Mrs. Mannelig shared their first genuine kiss.

Further days passed, wife and husband, though they shared a bed, had yet to partake in consummation; in those days, something peculiar happened. 

At his lover's meek insistence, he wore the silken clothing daily. The apparel never soiled, even the commonplace dampness of the land avoided the shirt. 

Such an oddity did not go unnoticed by the townspeople, whose poor impressions of Mannelig's wife only worsened. Objections would rise mostly out of his sight; on the rare occasion they did, however, the kind man would always hurry to defend her name. He still lacked the ability to answer some deeper questions they would pose, nor could he lie about it.

One day, he got to his house to find his wife entertained in a strange project. A few weeks earlier she had requested parchment and a method to inscribe it. Mannelig had difficulty buying the items, especially with given the village's judgement; regardless, he gave her the items.

"Look, my dear," she said. "Another of mine gifts to you."

The parchment sprawled on a wooden table. Incomprehensible scribbles and shiny pebbles decorated its surface. At first glance, it could be mistaken for sheer madness, scrutiny, however, revealed odd intent, close to art.

Mannelig's gaze darted all over the scroll. Any of his attempts to make sense of it were for naught. His face failed him, his brows, mouth, and even an inquisitive hand on his chin, revealed perplexity. His wife jerked her head between her husband's guise and her drawings. The man's confusion made her speak up.

"Oh, forgive me, dear. Devoid of explanation, this must seem insane."

She pointed her fingers to the lines with motion matching the cacography.

"Look, Uppland, Värmland, Västmanland, Södermanland; 'tis our land, Svealand. And these stones, the twelve mills I promised thee."

Comprehension reached the man. Alas, perplexity did not leave him.

"I understand not your insistence about these gifts," said the man. "Thou need not feel obligated to repay me."

"I must, Dear Mannelig. A good person thou art, yet thine fellow men shun thee, luck abuses thee! Well, I refuse! I shall see thee rewarded for thine qualities!"

She spoke as a raging fire. Never had Mannelig seen her act so. Both were surprised. As her expression shifted to a calmer one, as her frame moved to a chair where she hunched.

"Forgive me, my beloved. I spoke out of line. I know not what came over me."

"Nay, it is I who must ask for forgiveness," he said, kneeling in front of her. "There is no need for me to aggravate thee. If thou art happy providing me with gifts, then thou art to do as thou believes best."

They entered a tight hug. Their newfound grasp on their spouse's feelings meant neither of them led it, instead their embrace was a simultaneous act. As the man caressed his wife's skin, something hit him. Her rugged skin had turned even softer. It differed from the warmness that came from habit. Her touch had mellowed to the point of fully mimicking a human's. Of the rocky characteristics it once had, he noticed that only grayness remained.

Despite their emotions, touching his wife had an inherent unfamiliarity. He had ascribed that to a relationship with someone like her. The fragility reminds him of his gone mother and sister. Noticing his over-touching, Mrs. Mannelig gave an immediate explanation.

"'Tis a curse upon my kind. Those who disregard nature's will, lose their protection; turn soft."

He responded not, for he could not. He kept stroking her arm to the point of obsession. His body shivered, his breath grew heavier, teary-eyes on his face. It took his wife's hand on his cheeks to break the trance. As one of her fingers wiped a fleeting tear from his eye, she spoke.

"I have no need for a hard exterior. For I have thee and thine company, thus I fear no punishment and neither should thee."

"I simply cannot comply. Thou art distant, frail flower. The fear that I cannot reach thee, haunts my whole being."

She put her arms around him, laying her head on his shoulder.

"Hear me now, Herr Mannelig. For as long as you ask me, I shall be in thine arms reach."

She whispered her greatest intimacy after that; the last thing he had yet to know of her. Her name whispered in such a low tone, not even the gods could hear. By the measures of regular men, that night was when they truly became husband and bride.

The following day, Mannelig left the house and was surprised to find twelve large sacks behind his property. He opened one of them to reveal some sort of grain; it became clear all of them had the same contents. 

With the minor agitation, the woman sought Mannelig.

"Dear," he said, disturbed, "Do thee know of this?"

"Had I told you not, dear Mannelig? This is the yield of thy mills; the one I gifted thee."

Another oddity from the woman's gifts. Saner men would shun her and the mystical character of her doings right then. However, that strangeness had grown endearing to Mannelig; it was as much her as her devotion and thoughtfulness.

Initially he had trouble selling the crops, its magical origin well known to the populace of the tiny town. Passing merchants were more than happy to rid him of them for the right price, however. Soon, by selling their seasonal harvest, they had amassed a small fortune.

Mannelig was never a man of avarice, his wife was yet to understand the meaning of money as a concept; it was not long before they used the funds to move to a larger abode.

Their newer house was no manor, but was a far cry from Mannelig's childhood home. The wife alone could not tend the two story multi-bedroom residence and thus, they hired servants. 

Their labor was expensive; a fee to cover having to work under the enigmatic mistress. Much like it had happened to the kind man, the contact with the expecting woman, patched their notions.

Mrs. Mannelig had requested a single thing of their new home: a stable. The man could see how their continuous wealth could lead to the owning horses, and so complied.

No longer burdened by the works of the house, the frail-skinned troll spared more time to her unusual project. By the newer, bigger hearth, she spent her time away from Mannelig carving a piece of wood in a peculiar shape. By the time she was prepared to reveal the result, gestation bulged on her body.

His wife's face had greeted him one day with an additional beam. Her body rose from the chair as she playfully hid a small object behind her back.

"Another of thy gifts, love?" said Mannelig.

"Indeed. Has my gratitude become unwelcome?"

"Never, dear."

Such playfulness had become commonplace in the household. Any formalities shed slowly as they grew closer. According to most people, that intimacy was to be grown before getting married. Destiny, however, afforded them no choice; and they would not have it any other way.

Mrs. Mannelig waved the single servant off the room and asked her to shut the door behind her and have no one disturb them until said otherwise. She approached her husband and extended her hands to reveal a small wooden item. Honing her skill with the knife every day, she had turned a block of wood into a small crooked whistle.

"A whistle, dear?"

"Yes, my Mannelig. Knife, the tool of man, was hard to master, but I believe I did a good job."

"Indeed, you have. I have learned mine lesson, wife. What strange boon does this instrument bring."

She pushed the item into his hands, and those hands to his mouth.

"Do thou not find more diversion in discovering it, thyself?"

He shrugged off his wife's tease with laughter. Following, he did as told, blowing the odd instrument. He jumped at first, that was no whistle sound. A piercing screech that seemed to shake the insides of his body and the surrounding air.

Plenty of questions jumped to his mind; he had no time to ask them. His wife stopped him and put her hand to her ear in a conch shape.

"Hear that, my Mannelig?"

He mimicked his spouse, letting the quietest of sounds come to the forefront of his senses. The residence's walls partially muted the rustling of leaves and the blowing wind; a consistent sound could be heard clearly. Orderly and chaotic, his time as a hunter had taught him to identify it as animal steps; a horse's clip-clop.

Mannelig rushed to the window closest to the direction the sound came from. In the distance, beyond the bounds of the village, though faint, a white horse approaching the house could be seen.

The man turned back to his wife. She, in tow, only responded with a smile and a nod. He had smartened up to that point, remembering her original wedding gifts. The memory of twelve palfreys immediately jumped to mind. Mannelig grabbed his wife by the hand and led her to the stable.

On their way, they saw their helpers with mortified looks. Many who could not fully grasp what had happened, since their masters were not fond of rigid rules, had already made outside or followed them to the stables. 

Once there, two attendants stood on either of the tall stable doors hiding their bodies behind each panel, only peering inside in a meek pose. Only their employers' arrival can break their trance. They warn the man of the rampaging animal that awaited inside. Mannelig instructed his wife and employees not to come inside; his wife alone defied him.

Hay, in clumps or stray strands, covered the ground of the stable. The man stalked the trail of hoof-shaped mud marks; it led to the farthermost of the four stalls. Mrs. Mannelig did not walk with the same caution her spouse did, for she already knew the circumstances.

She laid her hand on his shoulder, assured him that such caution was unneeded, and finally they met the beast.

Incomprehensible it seemed in the distance, uncontrollable as he approached, unbelievable as he finally set his eyes upon it. The equine was beautiful, no other word could do justice to its appearance. Even if blackish mud soiled its long legs, the purity of its poise remained undimmed; such existed beyond the whiteness of the fur and extended to a nearly supernatural gleam. The beast was soft but not fragile, unridden but not inexperienced.

"A horse that knows no saddle or bridle," recalled the man.

"A palfrey, my dearest. Wherever thou art, just blow thy whistle and one shall find thee."

"And there are twelve of them?"

"Indeed. For each blow, thou shall call another."

The wife stroked the long face with a melancholic look. She turned to the man and instructed him to order servants to open a path. After he did, she called him back to her side and provided the last instructions.

"I warn you thus, my Mannelig. These horses bear no fondness for the creations of man. Leave them unsaddled, and they shall be thine most faithful retainers. Finally, tire them not, once their task is completed, thank them, at leave them to their merry way."

She brought her face to the equine's ear and said in soft tones:

"Jag tackar dig för ditt arbete, vild häst. Vet, du är fri."

With a bow and a neigh, the horse was away. The gentle trot at the start incremented into a wild sprint. Before long, the beast was gone from sight.

Like twice before then, Mannelig, humbled by such graces, insisted that she had much more to give than the mystical items. For the first time, however, his pleas reached her. Indeed, whatever hindrance once clouded her heart and mind had faded. She needed only look around her everyday life; she was no more the Troll cursed to a life of stony isolation. She belonged to an ever changing world of warmth. As the couple left the stables coddled, their assistants knew a fraction of what the husband had felt thrice by then.

Time passed and favoured the couple. Strife of harsh winters, the occasional disagreement and, of course, the never-fading disdain of the people indeed still met the couple. Their bond had grown from stone to steel, an odd monument to the relationship of the kindness of man and the devotion of nature.

Their child was born healthy and merry. A boy of wild eyes and hair, of fair complexion and spirit. Much joy the lad met in his home, the world would be harsher to him, had his parents given it the chance.

The young boy was yet to see four winters when the household began expecting their next child. Even if the world would point their daggers at them, within the Mannelig residence troll, human and something in between could find a hearth to stand by, and bedding to lie down.

The world was no peer to the next villain they would meet.

A land beyond the sea, surrounded by earth, turned their weapons to their homeland. Heralds of the king travelled to towns, cities and fortresses alike; a call to arms in defense of their motherland.

The man needed not think twice but join the campaign. His wife, who still knew little of the ways of politics and diplomacy, begged him not to part, to no avail. Mannelig never lost morals, but his sense of worth had indeed suffered. Now he had a home, a place to return to, someone to protect. He was to depart within weeks.

The day before he parted, he came home to a distressed servant. The woman swayed across the room, babbling nonsense as she did.

He inquired, she first responded with shock; in rapid pace approached her master. Between stutters and gasps, she explained the reason for her dismay. Not long after Mannelig himself had left that day to buy the last of his provisions for the coming conflict, his spouse had vanished from the house. All the help searched in frenzy for their mistress; they found her not within the residence, not in the stables, not even in town. It was late into the afternoon when she returned on a black horse. The servants, troubled, surrounded Mrs. Mannelig. She waved most of them off along with the equine, trudging towards the house while carrying an uncanny parcel. Most worryingly, she was soaking wet.

The darkest thoughts flooded Mannelig's mind as he made it to the bedroom. He burst open the ajar door, his sickly wife rested on their bed surrounded by maids bearing hot towels and a lachrymose child; none of them took their eyes off the mistress, not even after the master's sonorous entrance.

Only the woman noticed the man ordering all but her boy away. Their sense of duty and worry for the mistress made them resilient, but once she repeated her command in a roar, all bent to their will, in fear or respect.

The door closed behind him, Mannelig approached his family. Once close enough, their lad took hold of his legs and sobbed into his father's body. One look was enough, her state could worsen no further. He thought to berate her. Such an idea escaped his mind after his fingers met her frigid skin. The touch became the memory of his family as they faded away, the memory of their first meeting and the one of their wedding. It was not long till emotion overflowed out of him; he mimicked his child, pressing his wet face on the heavy blanket that covered his wife's chest.

"Rise my Mannelig," she said. "Another boon I have to grant thee."

"Unless thy gift is panacea, care for it not."

"And yet you must. As my sacrifice brings fleeting ailment, it may bring thee eternal fortune."

She raised her frail hand to her husband's hair and stroked its fine strands. A request followed. The lad was to bring his father the strange package.

Parchment and browned old ropes covered a parcel the length of his forearm. From within sounds, clearly coming from small objects, could be heard.

"Open it," said her sickly voice.

Unwrapping the item revealed the treasure underneath. A gleaming blade that rivalled royal treasures; its sheer presence dimmed anything else in the room. Its guard was adorned with small golden rings, counting would reveal there to have been fifteen. The grip of its hilt wrapped in dark leather. 

It was another of the mystical wedding gifts, however, such a conclusion never reached Mannelig's grieving mind. He would discard the extravagant sword aside had his wife not spoken up.

"The sword of promised victory, dear. If thou must fight, then this shall ensure thy safe return."

Mannelig's mind was a whirlwind of emotion; no conclusion or safety he found in closed eyes. Once the sight of his smiling beloved and the worried look of his progeny hit him, the storm froze solid; he attained renewed conviction.

He bore the sword and kneeled before the bed, holding it like a proper knight would.

"On my word, Bergatroll," he said, "thy Herr Mannelig shall return to thine arms a victor! I believe thy promise, for thou art beautiful creature; kin to angels and saints!"

The family shared the rest of the night in solitude. Father and son could not share the bed with the mother as the nature of her sickness was yet known. It mattered not, the presence of each other on that cold night was larger and warmer than any blanket.

Departing early on the following morrow, he could not deliver a kiss on the wife, but two on the lad would have to soothe his soul. Sword in an inferior scabbard, provisions in his large backpack, bearing all other gifts; he called a palfrey and left for the coastal capital. Like flowers of spring broke through the layer of snow, his ride parted the damp fog on his way.

No fame to his name. He was placed in a disposable band and joined the ship to the battlefield beyond the sea, the boundary of the world he knew. Fear of the unknown should have faded from the mind of a man of Mannelig's past, however, it was that very past that held his thoughts hostage. The sight of the fading shoreline in the night flooded his heart with melancholy.

Barely had he made it to the enemy shores, they thrust him into conflict. Save for his hunting skills, the man had no combat experience; he knew, however, to stay behind a shield and to move his sword without doubts. The skirmish did not last. Having arrived in the early morning, the band emerged victorious before the moon graced the skies.

Further battles fared no differently. By Mannelig's mystical blade, the enemy met a swift end; by the sound of his whistle, wounded allies found help promptly; the golden pebble he had brought kept his army fed; and the pure white shirt expelled impurities. As those gifts brought boon, they also brought sadness.

To lesser men, it would all seem accidental; but keen-eyed royals saw the man as the source of all those victories. Across many battles, the kind man rose from expendable body to leading captain. His renown grew such, he was to be made lord upon returning to the homeland.

He did not see a second spring in the foreign land before being called to return. He was an icon to the men whom he shared the vessel with. Rumors of his wedding floated in their conversations, but men thought a warrior of his virtue would cast away such wickedness instead; they mocked the very idea of a monster proposing to a man like him in short verses.

In the capital, he dealt with most of the officialdom before departing in a caravan to his hometown and family. They were to move to a larger house in the great city, with stables of course, and his vassals would remain in his employment. The joys that filled the man as his carriage reached the village of his origins, could not be described in text.

There was something amiss, however. The residence was never a place of disorder, but a tone of liveliness, a perk of having a child living there, was always present; that day, such a vibe was missing. Even if he noticed, it did not slow the speed of the man's entrance.

What his eyes met were maids as they lifelessly cleaned the furnishings. Their heads snapped to Mannelig's arrival. Most just fell to the ground while burying their face to their palms; one, sobbing still, rushed to the man. She seemed to explain the situation to him, but only moaned and wailed.

It mortified the master, chills flowing from his chest to his fingertips and then back. An older groundskeeper helped the woman to a chair and then returned to a paralyzed Mannelig.

He explained what had happened. It had been an entire season after the master had left, and his wife's condition had not improved at all. The disease did not worsen, but kept her in a perpetual bedridden state. As much as they tried keeping the son away from his mother to protect him, eventually he fell into a similar state. Many seasons passed, and they looked no better. The servants tried seeking help all over the village, without Mannelig, they felt no reason to assist. Thus, two seasons before his return, the first-born passed away in the arms of his mother. Losing a son would weaken any parent, Mrs. Mannelig, who was already ill, had no other conclusion in front of her.

The old man could not finish the story, Mannelig had already pushed him and charged to the bedroom. Where he found his worst nightmare.

Sheets of pure white covered the bed; underneath the distinct human shapes protruded; one larger and one much smaller. Flowers of spring in twisted garlands decorated the grotesque art piece.

If there was some close to him he could not tell, all his senses failed him as he dropped to his knees. After his eyes turned into waterfalls, he released a bestial screech. All the pain overflowed in that howl; any other ounce of pain would be too much.

He unsheathed the gilded sword and pointed its edge to his stomach. Soon, the pristine shirt would be stained for the first time. Before taking the thrust, he heightened his senses one last time.

Nature had reverted to all those years ago; the same rustling of leaves, the same dampness in the air, the same intoxicating petrichor, the birds too, the same. The wind blew through the window as he moved his hands.

"No further, my Mannelig."

That voice came from nowhere and everywhere. Silent and deafening. It was hers; it was his son's; it was his family's.

"No good life is free from tragedy."

He tossed the blade away, stood up and never again looked back.

Mannelig gave the oldest servant a letter and told all the remaining employees to go with the caravan and meet a friend of his in the capital. Those who tried to oppose met the master's frigid mourning. None of them ever saw the house or their employer again.

Through that night's raindrops, a massive flame grew; it raged even amidst the cold shower. Once the largest house in the village, it became an infernal flower, the spew of volcanoes. Only in the break of morning did it subside, leaving blackened ash, logs and stone as its corpse.

From then on, Herr Mannelig and his Bergatrollet existed only in song.


End file.
